Miscarriage of justice
by BHP
Summary: Mark's missing, there's blood in the gatehouse, Hardcastle's arrested for murder ...


All the usual disclaimers apply: the show and characters don't belong to me, although I might wish otherwise

All the usual disclaimers apply: the show and characters don't belong to me, although I might wish otherwise. And as always, please feel free to let me know what you think.

Miscarriage of justice

By BHP

The moon was shining brightly as Mark McCormick made his way across the garden to the gatehouse. He yawned and scrubbed his fingers over weary blue eyes as he detoured at a slow amble across the neatly mowed lawn, and stopped to look down on the shimmering sand on the beach. He and Hardcastle had spent the morning getting enough evidence lined up to arrest an investment advisor that the judge had been keeping tabs on for at least six months. Julius Sibley had developed a scheme for defrauding pensioners of their hard-earned savings, disappearing each time just as the investment payoff was due. Weeks ago, Hardcastle had insisted on pretending to be in need of financial advice, and today had been set as the day Hardcastle would hand over his savings to Sibley. Frank was supposed to move in once Sibley had the money, and make the arrest, but Hardcastle had decided to stay for the arrest himself. The jurist had taken great delight in snapping the handcuffs on Sibley's wrists himself. After Mark had chased Sibley six blocks and dragged him back to the office to face the police, of course. Nothing was ever simple.

Shaking his head slightly, Mark had to admit that it had felt good to see another lowlife off the streets. Especially one who preyed on elderly people who'd committed no crime other than being slightly gullible and too trusting of a slick conman with a sharp line of patter. Obviously, Sibley wasn't a great judge of character himself, though, or he would never have believed that Milton Hardcastle needed his help to invest in the stock market. And now, Sibley would never get the chance to rob people of their money again. At times like this, Mark could understand exactly why Hardcastle had started his 'retirement' project.

Running his hand through his curly brown hair, Mark considered heading down to the beach for a walk, then yawned again and turned to head for the gatehouse instead. The afternoon had been filled with paperwork in Frank's office, and then a trip to the market for groceries, a stop at the nursery for some seedlings for the beds near the front door, and a quick detour to help one of Hardcastle's neighbours move a fallen tree branch off his driveway. They'd only just made it home with time to make spaghetti for dinner before settling in to watch The High and the Mighty for what must have been at least the fourth time. Mark admitted that he'd seen all the Duke's movies so often by now that he was losing track of how many times they'd actually been screened.

But right now, he was too exhausted to want to do anything more than sleep, even though the moonlight and gentle sea breeze were tempting him to visit the beach. The tension that he'd sensed in the judge since their visit to Clarkville prison two weeks ago was still there, and he could think of no reason why the judge seemed unable to let whatever was bothering him fade into the past. Then again, he would only have been in the judge's custody for a year in another few weeks, and he was sure there was still a lot he didn't know about the older man. Maybe seeing the inside of a real prison, as an inmate would see it, had been too uncomfortable for the other man. Regardless of the reason, Mark was sure that things would be back to normal soon. Hardcastle wasn't the sort to let things fester for long.

Stepping through the gatehouse door, Mark dropped onto the sofa to quickly flip through his post. Tossing all the junk mail on the floor to deal with in the morning, he opened the letter from Barbara Johnson and started to read it. A smile crept onto his face as he read about how things were going for her, even as his eyes drooped shut. He wasn't even aware of falling asleep with the letter still in his hand.

Milton Hardcastle looked out of his window and saw the light on in the gatehouse, and wondered why the kid was still awake. Mark had looked so tired while watching the movie that the judge hadn't had the heart to tell the kid that he'd actually dozed off twice while John Wayne was saving the day. Well, if Mark was still tired in the morning, it certainly wouldn't be his fault for keeping him from his bed. Then again, tomorrow was Saturday and he wasn't planning to go through the files for a new case until Monday, so perhaps he'd let the kid sleep in for once.

Thinking back, though, he could see where the day they'd had would exhaust most people. He was tired himself and he wasn't the one who'd had to chase Julius Sibley down the street and bring him back to be arrested. Or the one who'd had to avoid being stabbed while doing it, so perhaps Mark had a reason for being more tired than Hardcastle. Hardcastle smiled as he scratched a hand through his sparse grey hair, and pondered Mark's motivations. He knew the kid felt some sort of responsibility to him, that much had become perfectly clear during the Clarkville prison riot, but he surely didn't expect Mark to risk death or injury for him. Just being in that prison had to have brought up things Mark probably didn't want to remember, but the younger man had seemed to shrug everything off in less than a day. But two weeks later, Hardcastle could feel that he would have more trouble getting back to normal.

Hardcastle considered that idea carefully for a moment. He wasn't sure what normal was anymore. Mark had been willing to risk everything for Hardcastle, without a second thought for his own safety. That sort of loyalty and friendship hadn't been in his plans a year ago, and it was humbling to be on the receiving end of a gift like that. Hardcastle would privately admit that he would do the same thing for Mark. If only the kid weren't so reckless about his own safety. That morning was a case in point. So Sibley had pulled out a knife and tried to use Hardcastle as a hostage when he saw the police arriving, before deciding that it would be better to simply cut and run. So Mark had been the closest to the door Sibley had run out of and had been the first to chase the man. That didn't mean that the younger man was dispensable or that his health was of less importance than Hardcastle's.

He made a mental note to tell the kid that in the morning and apologise for yelling at him for being reckless. Even Frank had pointed out that a throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of the police bullpen wasn't the best way to thank someone for saving your life. Maybe the apology would ease the tension between them, and also remove some of the edginess he'd been feeling since Clarkville. Hardcastle's innate sense of fair play rose up in revolt at the thought that Mark might be under the impression that the current situation was somehow his fault; the younger man had a tendency to assume that everything bad could be laid at his door. He would make it clear that this wasn't the case, first thing in the morning.

00000

The pilot of the small speedboat cut the engine as the boat drew near to Seagull Beach, and let it drift the last few feet to run aground gently on the sand. Stepping out and dragging the boat further up on the sand, he looked around the quiet beach. Gathering up a black backpack from the floor of the boat, and hooking the strap over his shoulder, he made his way towards the path up to Gulls' Way. Looking around to make sure no-one was watching, he started the climb to the estate, moving slowly and making sure to make no noise. He'd waited too long for this, and planned too carefully for his plans to be derailed by some nosy neighbour with an overactive imagination.

Reaching the top of the cliff, Steven Whitlow moved into the shadows of the trees and took a look around. The house was laid out exactly as he'd expected from the plans he'd memorised, and the gatehouse was also exactly where it should be. You could never rely completely on second-hand information, but in this case it was completely accurate. Sometimes paying a premium to your snitches was worth the money. Settling under the trees, he checked his watch and decided to wait until just after three o'clock in the morning before making his move. The darker the night became, the better it would be for him. Perhaps some clouds would blow in to help block the full moon by then too. Running over each step of his plan would keep his mind active for the next hour. As long as he kept his mind from considering what had happened to his father, and to Jason, he could stay in control.

At his chosen time, Steven made his way slowly towards the gatehouse, a little concerned that the lights still burned brightly in the lounge area. The mask itched and he took a second to scratch the side of his neck. He would have preferred not to bother with a mask, as it wouldn't really matter if the ex-con saw his face. But he needed it for the second part of his plan, and taking the time to put it on later could slow him down. Checking to see that there was no movement in the main house, he stepped up to the door and eased it open. In the sudden spill of light, an observer would have seen a man of medium height, dressed in black, wearing a ski mask and carrying what looked like a knapsack over his shoulder. But there were no observers awake in the main house, and the man slipped into the gatehouse and closed the door gently behind him.

Stopping just inside the door, he let his eyes adjust to the light as he took in the scene before him. A young man with dark hair was slumped on the sofa, fast asleep. A letter lay on the floor near his outstretched hand, a silent testimonial to exhaustion. This would have to be Mark McCormick, ex-con, ex-race car driver, current sidekick and all-around dogsbody. So far, his information was right on the money. Quietly setting his bag on the floor, the intruder slipped a cloth pad and a bottle out of his pocket. Soaking the cloth with the liquid in the bottle, he moved carefully to Mark's side, and then quickly slapped the cloth over Mark's nose and mouth. Sudden wakefulness and futile struggles came too slowly to help Mark escape and soon he was asleep again, but this time on the floor.

Safe in the knowledge that his victim would be asleep for at least another hour, the man quickly tied Mark's ankles together, then tied the young man's hands behind his back. Retrieving a standard coroner's body bag from his backpack, he laid it on the floor next to Mark. Awkwardly, he manoeuvred Mark into the body bag and zipped it shut almost to the top, leaving only Mark's face exposed. Dragging the bag up onto the sofa again, he positioned it to look as though Mark was still sitting on the sofa. Retrieving another couple of dark plastic bags from his backpack, he carefully attached them to the sofa cushion next to Mark. Digging into the backpack one more time, he pulled out a tightly twisted piece of plastic wrap, opened it and sprinkled the tiny amount of white powder on the cushion next to Mark, and then slipped the plastic wrap back into his bag. Picking up his backpack and checking the contents one last time, he slipped out the door and headed for the main house. So far, things were following his plans exactly.

Making his way into the main house, Steven kept to the shadows, slipping stealthily up the stairs to check each room until he found Hardcastle, asleep on his back in a ray of moonlight. For a moment, he stood in the doorway and considered the man who was to blame for everything that had gone wrong. The man who bore the responsibility for the fate of Steven's father. The face differed from the one etched in Steven's memory, the one he had memorised from the photograph his informant had sent him a few years back. He supposed that time had brought changes to those features, just as it had to his own. Dismissing the idea as fanciful, Steven brought his mind back to the task at hand.

Reaching into his bag, Steven pulled out a small bowl, one bag of white powder and another bag of what looked like pieces of dried plants. He'd come across this particular concoction completely by chance, not long before he'd managed to get a job in sunny California. A street gang in New Jersey had discovered that mixing peyote and LSD created a new drug with interesting properties. Well, interesting for criminals anyway. Victims became suggestion-prone and could be convinced to do almost anything. And the effects lasted long enough for the people behind the actual crimes to get away free and clear.

Pouring the contents of both bags into the bowl, he mixed them together carefully, and then lit a match to set the whole concoction alight. While the initial smoke died to a slight misting of aroma, he slipped a mask over his nose and mouth and picked the bowl up. Stepping slowly across the room, he placed the bowl on the bedside table, watching as the gentle breeze through the window carried the fumes directly across Hardcastle's face.

After a quarter of an hour, the contents of the bowl had burned to ash, and the judge was moving restlessly in the bed. Now was the most difficult time in the whole process, as the sound of a human voice was often enough to break the illusion of sleep. Stepping right next to the bed, he bent down to whisper quietly in Hardcastle's ear. "It's time to get up, Judge Hardcastle. Listen only to my voice; follow me now." The quiet hypnotic tone proved effective again now, as it had so many times before when he'd tested the mixture on other unwilling victims. The judge was stirring sluggishly and moving as commanded. "Now, lead me to your shotgun, Judge. You know where you keep it; take me there. You need it to keep you safe; there are dangerous people everywhere; you're in danger now; you have to be able to defend yourself at any moment. Lead me to the shotgun."

Hardcastle came awake slowly, feeling completely disoriented, much as he imagined being drunk would be like in a dream. He felt like he was moving, but then the floor seemed to shift under him, and the walls moved towards him and then away again, as though he was looking at them through a funhouse mirror. Colours came and went, mingling into vivid tones, then fading to grey as other variations flared brightly. Under everything was the driving urge to go somewhere: he knew that what he was doing was important, vital even, but he couldn't seem to remember what it was that he had to do.

A nagging internal voice urged him to hurry; danger was close and he needed protection now. At that idea, the memory returned in all its clarity. He was looking for his shotgun. Hot on the heels of this thought came another; the shotgun was in the den. Picking up speed as the idea became clearer through the overwhelming misty confusion, Hardcastle headed for the den. Fumbling slightly as he lifted the shotgun, he loaded it slowly, then stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. Something about this was wrong; he could feel it. There weren't any unexplored dangers on the estate, and the only other person nearby was Mark. He didn't need the gun.

Almost immediately, the feeling of panic returned. There was danger, and it was across the garden in the gatehouse. At the thought that something might be threatening Mark's safety, Hardcastle knew he had to act. Setting off across the lawn at speed, he headed for the lighted windows. The same feeling of threat and danger returned as he entered the door, only to find Mark seated on the sofa. But there was something wrong with his vision, as the edges of Mark's face wavered and blurred, running like paint in water, before coalescing again into a face he recognised. Without warning, the feeling of danger roared back in all its intensity, and reacting on instinct, Hardcastle raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger.

The blast of the gun going off shocked some semblance of reality back into Milton Hardcastle. As he struggled to comprehend the sudden noise and why he would be firing the gun in the gatehouse, his eyes were drawn to one image: Mark's lax face, pale and splattered with bright red blood, surrounded by the edges of a black body bag. As he watched in horrified fascination, a black-gloved hand slowly drew the zip all the way up, gradually hiding Mark's face from him. Not that it mattered; that final image was burned into his memory and would never leave.

Steven Whitlow smiled in satisfaction. Things had gone off without a hitch, and Hardcastle's performance under his control had exceeded his expectations a thousand fold. Resuming his quiet monologue, he guided Hardcastle back to the main house, deliberately getting the older man to walk through the blood pooling on the floor near the sofa. Leading the jurist back to his bedroom, he encouraged Hardcastle to return to bed, knowing that the older man would wake in an hour or two, haunted by psychedelic memories of bloodshed and death.

Checking his watch as he slipped out of the main house, the bowl and its ashes once again hidden inside his backpack, Steven made for the gatehouse at a run. Dawn was coming, and he needed to get away before then. Dashing into the gatehouse, he collected the empty blood pouches from the sofa, now riddled with shotgun pellets, and dropped them into his backpack. Moving to the other end of the sofa, he dragged the unconscious body of Mark McCormick to its feet, before slipping a shoulder under the body bag and lifting the younger man into an improvised fireman's carry. Moving as quickly as he could, the intruder headed for the cliff edge and made his way slowly back towards his boat, hampered at every step by his burden. A jerk against the bag halfway down the cliff almost toppled him off his feet, but he managed to regain his balance and keep moving.

Mark's first conscious thought was that he wished he could remember the party that had given him the worst hangover he'd ever had. Then he realised that a hangover wasn't usually accompanied by a feeling of nausea like this, not to mention, hangovers usually didn't carry you over their shoulder. That left drugs of some sort, which implied that things could only get worse from here on out. He could hear a quiet voice curse as the person carrying him slipped on some loose gravel, then a stinging pain in his leg as it caught against a sharp rock. The sound and the angle told Mark that they were heading down the cliff path to the beach at the estate. Trying to move slightly told him that both his hands and feet were tightly bound, leaving him with no option but to go where he was being taken. At least, his captor didn't seem to know he was awake, so perhaps he could get a clue about what was going on before making a break for freedom. He wondered whether the judge was also being kidnapped, whether the older man had been hurt, and promised himself that if the older man were hurt, someone would pay heavily for each injury inflicted. Some would say he was only looking out for his own best interests, and in some small way, he knew that was no doubt true. But a larger part of him had realised in Clarkville that the judge mattered for his own sake, because against all odds Hardcastle had turned out to be Mark's friend.

The smell of salt told Mark that they'd made it to the beach and the next thing he could feel under him was the bottom of some kind of water craft. The floor felt like wooden slats, and the bobbing motion told Mark that it was a small boat. He could hear movement near him, the sound of a footstep on wood, and then he heard a small outboard motor roar to life and the boat headed out into the sea. Trying to count out the seconds in his head was futile, as the nausea returned full force, making his stomach heave in sympathy with every wave the boat crested. After what could have been five minutes or five hours, Mark could hear a change in the engine, and the revs dropped as the boat slowed to a gentle halt against what sounded like a wooden pier. More sounds of movement preceded a sudden movement as the bag containing Mark was dragged onto the pier. Biting his lip to keep quiet and trying to let his body stay limp, Mark felt himself being lifted and then put down, and then a single, solid thumping noise compressed the air above him. The noise and vibration of a car engine let him know that he'd been shut in the trunk of a car.

Squirming onto his side, Mark tried to work on the rope around his wrists, but all the tugging and twisting he could manage only scraped his one wrist raw, and he could feel the wetness of blood oozing from the cut. Lying back, he tried to concentrate on the route the car was following instead. At least that way, when he got a chance to get away, he'd have a clue as to which way was the way home. The road moved away from the ocean, the sounds of the waves fading as the sounds of traffic increased. He could hear the excited voices of some teenagers, talking loudly about how great the waves were for surfboarding this morning. Then the car stopped, before pulling onto what seemed to be a larger road, as Mark could hear more cars passing.

After slowing almost to a stop again, the car made a turn to the right and picked up speed. The engine laboured slightly and Mark could hear the driver change down a gear before the car picked up more speed again. The sound of the engine indicated that they were heading uphill, with a gradient that varied from slight to relatively steep. Mark felt the pull of gravity and inertia regularly and wondered which of the canyon roads they were on; only one of those roads could account for the amount of curves and dips the road was taking. Slowing again, the car took another right turn, and followed another winding road before turning sharply right, onto an unpaved surface. After a few minutes of rough road, the car coasted to a stop and the sound of the engine died away.

The trunk opened and Mark could feel hands reach under the bag and drag it out of the car, knocking his head against the lid of the trunk. Too startled to keep quiet, Mark's cry alerted the kidnapper to the fact that his victim was awake. A quiet oath was followed by a rustling noise, and then the zip in front of Mark's face moved down, letting in light and air. Mark took a deep breath, which only made the headache worse, and looked up to see his kidnapper. Mark's gaze met two cold green eyes beneath a shock of black hair, set in a narrow, angular face. He had just enough time to register a flash of light on a needle in the man's hand before the sedative was injected directly into his neck. Slumping to one side, Mark's last conscious thought was that it couldn't be a good thing that his kidnapper didn't seem to care that Mark had seen his face.

00000

Milton Hardcastle hadn't suffered from nightmares in many years. And nightmares of body bags and pale corpses had last haunted his nights when the news of Tommy's death had come. But now, as he jerked awake in his bed at Gulls' Way, all he could see was an image of Mark's face, pale and lifeless, speckled with blood, being zipped into a body bag. And the only memories he had were blurred and wavering, filled with inexplicable dread and the sound of a shotgun.

The only thing that could have caused this was Mark's pursuit of Julius Sibley the day before. Milt hadn't thought that Mark's near stabbing would bother him so much, but there was no other explanation for his nightmares. Perhaps it was time to reconsider this partnership of theirs. He'd never intended for the kid to be in danger, and he'd certainly never wanted him to get hurt. He'd probably die before he'd admit it, but he was starting to think of the kid as a friend, someone to rely on when things got tough and loneliness threatened. Stumbling slightly as he stood up, Milt wavered on his feet as a wave of unfamiliar dizziness passed over him. Waiting until his head cleared, he stepped into his slippers and pulled on his robe, intending to head out to the gatehouse to talk to Mark. That was when the blood on his clothes registered, as well as the bloody footprints on the floor.

Fear clenched its icy fist on Milt's heart as he followed the footprints to the door. The trail continued down the stairs, and halfway down the stairs, he found his own shotgun, lying on top of the bloody trail. The line of blood drops continued into the kitchen and out the back door, and disappeared into the grass. Fighting to draw breath against the fear that choked him, Milt headed for the door to the gatehouse, absently noticing that the lights were still burning in the lounge. Stepping into the gatehouse, the first thing he saw was the pellet-riddled sofa, covered in blood, and then everything else faded into the terrifying memory of shooting Mark at point-blank range, and seeing the lifeless face disappearing behind the zip of a body bag. The blurred memories strengthened, and Milt remembered the feeling of dread and urgency, followed by the loud sound of a shotgun discharge. Realisation washed over him in a wave of horror: he'd shot Mark!

Feeling physically ill, Hardcastle stumbled back to the main house, heading into the den to use the telephone. There was only one thing he could do now. Dialling the emergency number, he waited for the operator to ask what was wrong before he spoke in a distant, lifeless voice. "My name is Milton Hardcastle. I want to confess to the murder of Mark McCormick, at the Gulls' Way estate, on Pacific Coast Highway. Please send the police as soon as possible."

00000

Frank Harper leaned back in his chair and savoured his eggs and bacon. He didn't often get to enjoy a quiet Saturday morning with Claudia, with no pressing cases and no work-related concerns. He intended to make the most of it. Perhaps they could even take a picnic lunch to the beach later and hunt for shells. Or stay in and enjoy sitting together and doing the crossword. Frank lived for these peaceful days that reminded him of why he did the job he did.

The ring of the telephone interrupted his mental planning, and he headed over to answer it, hoping it wasn't a call from the police station. After identifying himself, he found a stunned sounding dispatcher on the other end of the line. He thought her name was Susan, but she was so upset he wasn't sure it was really her voice.

"Lieutenant, I'm sorry to bother you. I know it's your day off, but I thought you'd want to know. Judge Hardcastle just called in and confessed to murdering Mark McCormick." Frank's mind baulked at hearing the words. He was sure he'd heard her wrong, but she kept talking, telling him that she'd already sent a black and white to the house. Pulling himself together, Frank made an attempt to sound in control as he asked for more information. Finding out that Susan knew nothing more, he hung up and went to make his apologies to Claudia, before grabbing his gun, badge and notebook, and heading for Gulls' Way.

Trying to make sense of everything while driving out to Milt's house kept his mind focused. There was just no way this could be true. Milt was hard-nosed, sure, but it was obvious to anyone who knew him well, that he was very fond of Mark and would go out of his way to keep the younger man safe. Even those who'd heard him yelling at Mark yesterday afternoon could tell that it was only bluster, and only because he'd been worried that Mark might get hurt. Frank couldn't even imagine a situation were Hardcastle would raise a hand against Mark. And despite everything logic might dictate, he knew that the same was true of Mark; the younger man's feelings for the judge were well-hidden from most people, but Frank had seen enough to know that Hardcastle was special to Mark.

As he pulled into the driveway of the estate, he could already see the flashing lights on a number of police cruisers, revolving slowly and throwing a kaleidoscope of blue and red light through the early morning sunshine onto the greenery around the fountain. Parking behind the other cars, he identified himself to the uniformed officer at the front door, and made his way into the house. Hearing voices off to the side, he slipped through the doorway into the den just in time to hear Hardcastle's final sentence. "And then, after seeing all the blood, I came back here and called for the police."

Hardcastle had aged overnight, looking at least a decade older than Frank knew him to be. Now that he'd finished speaking, Hardcastle simply turned his head away to stare at the bookcase. Following his gaze, Frank saw a photograph of Mark and Milt, standing side by side and smiling like loons. From the background he could see the photograph had been taken in Washington. The devastation on Hardcastle's face as he stared at Mark was too painful to see, and Frank turned away to get a copy of Hardcastle's statement. Reading it through, what struck him first was the lack of detail. Milt was one of the most level-headed people he knew, with years of experience in dealing with crime and its effects, yet the whole thing read like a bad high-school essay: lots of 'I think' and 'I felt' sentences, and very few hard facts. But it would be a hard thing to fight in court or to the District Attorney, based on nothing more than Frank's convictions. It was a freely offered confession, with just enough detail to convict Milt of first-degree murder.

Leaving Milt with a police officer watching him, Frank followed the blood trail back into the hallway and then up the stairs to Milt's bedroom. As he entered the room, a faint scent drifted past him, but it was gone too quickly to identify. A smell of burning greenery, perhaps, or autumn leaves. Moving carefully around the yellow police tape marking off sections of the room, he made his way to the side of the bed. A faint mark on the bedside table caught his eye, and Frank rubbed his finger gently over it. It was a burn, faint but recent, he was sure. A trace of pale ash coated his finger, and he took care to wipe it off into an evidence bag. Digging his notebook out of his pocket, he made a note of the observation. He also made a note of what he considered discrepancies in Milt's statement; too few facts, too many feelings.

Heading back downstairs, he walked slowly across the yard to the gatehouse. He walked around it from the outside first, looking for anything out of place. There was a shoe imprint in the one flower bed, but it could have been made by Mark. Although he did think it odd that Mark would have been working in a bed that had no flowers at the moment. He made another note before heading into the gatehouse, expecting the worst.

Confusion stopped Frank dead as he walked into the gatehouse. Sure, there was the expected pool of red on the floor and the sofa, and the scent of drying blood filled the air, but there was no body! The murder had obviously taken place on the sofa, but aside from the blood, there was no sign of Mark. Snagging the arm of a passing policeman, Frank checked, "Officer, I thought there'd been a murder here. Where's the body?"

"There is no body, sir. The old guy called in and confessed, and this was all we found when we got here. I guess he dumped the body somewhere else." Frank's blood boiled at the lack of respect in the younger man's voice. "That 'old guy', as you call him, is a retired judge. You'll treat him with the respect he deserves. And I would suggest you start looking for a body before you close the case. Not everything is always as simple as it looks."

Stepping back, Frank considered the scene, his head cocked to one side as he tried to imagine the events as they happened. He could see that Mark had to have been sitting on the sofa and the shooting must have been from close range. Given the size of the room, the shooter would have been standing less than six feet away. Why would Mark have let a killer get that close? Even if the shooter had been Hardcastle, and Frank's mind rejected that idea immediately, there was no way Mark would have sat there and waited for his own death. He should have tried to move, at the very least. And if Mark had been moving, then the blood pattern on the sofa would have been messier. As it was, there was one large pool, slowly soaking into the cushions. And the blood pool was uniform, with no gaps for where a hand or arm would have blocked the passage of blood into the material. Frank made another note before heading outside.

He couldn't put a finger on it yet, but everything about this just felt wrong. It was out of character for everyone involved. Hardcastle wasn't the sort to kill anyone, especially a friend, and Mark wasn't likely to sit still and take an unprovoked attack from any source. And of course, the biggest problem Frank had was that Mark's body was missing. Call him old school if you wanted to, but he liked to have a body in front of him before tossing out the word 'murder'.

Disregarding Hardcastle's confession, Frank mused on other possibilities as he wandered towards the sea wall. If Mark were still alive, perhaps he'd tried to get away. If so, he might have headed for the beach, which Frank knew fascinated the young ex-con. Looking down the pathway, he could see signs that someone had used the path recently. Making his way halfway down the path, to the site of a broken plant, Frank could see the gravel had been disturbed, and a few pieces had blood on them. Of course, it could have been there for a few days, but Frank made one more note and collected a few pieces for evidence before heading back to the main house.

00000

Milton Hardcastle shuffled slowly across his room, in search of clothes to wear to the police station. He knew the police wanted his blood splattered clothes and the young policeman had given him ten minutes to change. Pulling on the first pair of shorts he laid hands on, he rummaged for one of his Hawaiian print shirts. Slipping on worn canvas shoes, he turned and handed his slippers and robe to the policeman, and then led the way back downstairs. Seeing Frank come in the door, Hardcastle nodded and moved towards him.

"Frank. Are you here to arrest me?" The tone was flat and unemotional, but Frank could see the effort it took to keep the façade in place. He glanced at the uniformed officer and received a quick nod. "Okay, Milt, I'll take you to the station now. And then we can get all this cleared up, and find out what's happened to Mark."

Hardcastle's eyes slipped away from Frank's, and Frank could see the jurist pale as he looked at something in his memory. "I know what happened to Mark, Frank. He's dead, and I killed him. The only thing I want to do is confess to the DA and enter a guilty plea to the court." The apathy returned, and Frank reached out a gentle hand to guide Milt towards his car. But Hardcastle pulled away sharply and walked on his own. "I don't deserve your sympathy, Frank. Save it for Mark." With no answer to that unemotional statement, Frank followed behind, grimly resolved to find the truth about the whole situation.

00000

The news spread like wildfire around the police station, and within an hour of Frank's arrival, everyone knew that Mark had been murdered by Judge Hardcastle. Those who'd heard the argument the afternoon before nodded sagely to themselves, and some said how they'd always known that no good would come of the whole situation. Ex-convicts couldn't be rehabilitated and this was what happened when you didn't let the justice system run its course. Others nodded and wondered why it had taken the judge this long to do something about McCormick, and really, given how many cases Hardcastle had presided over, you'd think he would have got rid of the evidence better and just kept quiet when McCormick disappeared. Frank seethed at the injustice of it all, not to mention the assumptions being made that everything was exactly as it seemed.

There were a few reasonable voices amongst the cloud of assumptions, asking much the same questions that Frank found himself asking, starting with: where was the body, and why hadn't Hardcastle removed the evidence? Frank added his own questions about the smell in Hardcastle's room, the burn and ash on the table, the blood stain on Mark's sofa and the broken plant and disturbed gravel on the cliff path. Even so, nothing would be enough for reasonable doubt if Hardcastle continued to insist on pleading guilty.

The holding cell was cold and bare, but Hardcastle didn't really notice it. What he could remember of the night before, distorted and wandering though it was, kept playing in his mind, looping endlessly from fear to panic to Mark's lifeless face, and then back to the beginning again. The reasons behind what he'd done just refused to come clear in his head, but the results were there. He'd convicted and sentenced people on less evidence than he'd given the police this morning, and he knew the DA would take his guilty plea as a gift. And then he could start to pay for the terrible thing he'd done to the best friend he had in many years.

That thought brought Hardcastle back to the present, and his surroundings registered properly for the first time. The walls were grey and unadorned, cold and desolate; much like the feelings he'd locked away in a corner of his aching heart. The irony of the whole situation wasn't lost on him either. He'd sent Mark to prison for two years, and now, in a sense, Mark was sending him to prison. But Hardcastle knew that his sentence would be longer than Mark's, and that he would most likely never see the outside of a prison again. He smiled sadly at the thought that there'd been a chance of redemption for Mark, but not for him. No sentence would be harsh enough for his crime.

The sound of a key in the door brought his attention to the bars, only to see Frank Harper on the other side. Smiling, Frank waved the guard away and came into the cell, waiting until the guard had locked it and moved away before speaking. "Milt. Claudia says to tell you that she doesn't believe a word of your confession. I don't either, by the way, so I need you to tell me everything that happened last night." The slight smile in Frank's voice belied the worry in his dark eyes.

"Tell Claudia that sometimes reality doesn't always give you what you want, Frank. I want Mark here with me, but it's not going to happen. And I'm the one to blame for that, as far as I can remember." Hardcastle's voice was strained but clear; no-one was going to see him break, not even a friend. Frank had known, going into this discussion, that getting around Hardcastle's personal code of justice would be difficult, but the word impossible came strongly to mind at the moment. Although an undercurrent of uncertainty in the older man's words allowed him to hope that he might be able to make Milt think twice about confessing outright to murder.

Taking a deep breath, Hardcastle cast his mind back. "I remember watching a movie with Mark, and then he went to bed. It must have been almost midnight. He was tired, fell asleep a couple of times during the show. I saw the lights on in the gatehouse when I went to bed, maybe twenty minutes later. I thought it was odd that he was still up, when he'd been so tired, and I thought I'd let him sleep in this morning. No basketball at six." Hardcastle's voice had softened as he relived the events. Frank smiled gently at the concern the judge showed for Mark, though he'd never admit it to Mark's face.

"Then I remember waking up, feeling disoriented, but knowing that something was wrong. There was danger somewhere close. I don't know what, or where, but I knew I had to get to my shotgun. The next thing I remember is thinking that the danger was in the gatehouse, and heading over there." Hardcastle's eyes narrowed and his face twisted momentarily in grief. "I felt like I had to keep him safe, chase off whatever was threatening. But when I got into the room, he was just sitting on the sofa. And then, I remember raising my shotgun, and shooting him. I can still see his face, Frank, and all that blood…" Hardcastle's voice faded out, and then he seemed to drag himself back to the holding cell with a physical effort.

Frank considered what he'd heard, and nudged Hardcastle on. "Okay, so then what did you do? Where did you take the body?" Hardcastle hesitated as he struggled to remember. "I don't know, Frank. The next thing I remember is waking up this morning, seeing blood on my clothes and then going out to the gatehouse and remembering what I did to Mark."

Frank sighed and closed his notebook. He'd hoped that Milt might have remembered more by now, and that there'd be some idea of where to look for Mark. Tucking the book into his pocket, he looked across the cell at Milt. The older man was slipping into his memories again, so Frank got up to leave. "Frank. Could you do something for me?" Hardcastle sounded hesitant, but Frank nodded immediately. "Anything, Milt, you know that."

Hardcastle shifted uncomfortably for a second, then spoke. "I know I won't be getting out of here, and I need someone to see to things for me. There'll have to be a service for Mark, and I can't do anything about it from here." Frank nodded. "I'll see to everything, Milt. But it might be a while before anything happens. The DA is going to insist that we look for the body first." Frank intended to make sure that the DA insisted on looking for the body; something about this whole situation just wasn't sitting right with him. "And I'll make sure that you get permission to come to whatever we organise." Hardcastle shook his head. "No, Frank. I can't go, not after this. I may not remember everything, but I do know that Mark was a friend. And that I killed him. In a few years, he could have been ..." The words faded away, and Hardcastle took a deep breath. Mark could have been like another son, but that chance was gone now. "I can't even remember why I did it, and until I do, I don't have the right to share in the memories of the people who loved him."

Frank was appalled. "Milt, that's not true. You know that none of us would think like that. And I'm convinced that there's an explanation for everything that's happened; we just have to find it." Hardcastle smiled sadly at that. "I appreciate your faith in me, Frank. But the only explanation is that I did something reprehensible, and I want justice to be served as quickly as possible. I have to pay for what I did." Frank sighed and admitted defeat for the moment.

00000

Mark woke slowly, feeling groggy rather than nauseated this time. Silence surrounded him like a sodden blanket and his head thudded in time to his pulse. Staying still, he tried to make some sense of his surroundings with his eyes shut. The gentle warmth on his face told him that it was still daylight, and the softness under his limp body implied a bed rather than a floor. What sort of kidnapper drugged you and then left you on a comfortable bed, apparently alone and not restrained in any way? Listening carefully, Mark realised that he could hear no sounds outside the room he was in. Opening his eyes carefully, he winced at the brightness of the sunshine, and squinted until his eyes adapted to the light.

The room was neither large nor particularly small, but rather just an average room that had last been home to a typical teenage boy. A poster depicted a rock band that'd been popular a few years before, and a football pennant showed an interest in sports. Framed photographs covered one wall, and Mark eased himself off the bed to get a closer look. Bracing himself against a passing wave of dizziness, he considered the photographs. Most of them were of the same two people, an older grey-haired man with brown eyes and a narrow face, a younger boy with laughing hazel eyes and black hair. Only on the wall nearest the window was there a photograph with three people in it, the first two being the same people from all the other photographs and the third being the same man who'd kidnapped Mark. The family resemblance was clear, and Mark could only assume that the other two people were a father and a brother.

Making the rounds of the room, Mark spotted newly installed metal bars on the outside of the room's solitary window. Perhaps the kidnapper wasn't as complacent as he seemed. A gentle tug on the door handle yielded nothing, showing that he was restricted to this one room. Bending down to peer through the key hole, Mark could see light on the other side of the door. At least, he could pick the lock if he needed to; provided he could find something to pick it with. Newly motivated, Mark made a second circuit of the room, stopping at the small study desk under the window. Spotting a narrow letter opener and a pile of paper clips, he collected the items and moved back to the bed, eager to start work on creating a set of lock picks. The sound of a key in the lock had him frantically hiding the items under the pillow on the bed, and settling with his back against it, trying to settle an innocent, puzzled expression on his face. At least the confused part was easy to get right; he had no idea what was going on. Then the man he remembered seeing fleetingly that morning stepped into the room, carrying a gun with careless ease.

Steven Whitlow moved cautiously into the room. If any of the reports he'd read about Hardcastle and McCormick over the last year were even partly true, the man in front of him could look after himself and wasn't averse to a few risks. But the bedraggled and confused man on the bed didn't really seem like much of a threat. "Put your hands where I can see them." His voice was cold and clear, and Mark moved immediately to comply. "Now, get up and step towards the wall." A gesture with the gun indicated a position, and Mark followed it, then waited. "The bathroom is through the door and to your right. No sudden moves, please. And don't try to escape; there's nowhere to go, and no-one to hear you yell for help."

Mark moved slowly, his mind trying to make sense of a kidnapper who was concerned about your health and comfort. "Look, I don't know what you want, but how about you tell me and I'll see what I can do?" Silence met this opening gambit and Mark thought a few seconds before trying again. "Okay then, how about you tell me who you are and what I've done to annoy you or someone you know?" Just when Mark had given up on an answer to this question as well, Steven spoke quietly behind him. "It doesn't really matter what you know, so I may as well tell you. My name is Steven Whitlow, and as for what I want from you: nothing at the moment. In a few more days, I'll want your death."

00000

The rest of the morning passed in a blur for Frank, as he haunted the forensics department, demanding answers about the evidence collected at the scene. Yet everything he heard simply made it harder to find a way to prove that Milt hadn't killed Mark. After calling Claudia with an update and to explain that he'd probably spend the night at the station with Milt, he headed for the holding cells again. Maybe Milt had remembered something more, or reconsidered his hard line stance on what he wanted to do. Stopping just outside Hardcastle's range of vision, he watched the older man for a few minutes, seeing the strain of the day reflected on the suddenly old face. Milt sat motionless on the narrow bunk, staring into space with a faraway look in his eye, and Frank hated having to make him relive the events again, but the job required it. Clearing his throat in warning, he took the last few steps to the cell door.

Milt glanced up at him in disinterest and then nodded slightly. Waiting for the guard to open the door, Frank slipped in and joined Milt on the narrow bunk. "I'm sorry to make you go through this again, Milt, but can you think of anything else you haven't told me?" Hardcastle shook his head slowly, the motion considered and definite. "I told you everything this morning, Frank. Nothing can change the fact that I killed Mark, for no reason that I can think of."

Hardcastle waited a second, then spoke again. "How soon will I be arraigned, Frank? I'll need to get a suit from the house for court." Frank let himself be distracted by the question. "Well, not before Monday morning, at the earliest. You know judges don't really like to work on Sundays." Frank hoped for a smile, but got just another blank stare from Milt. Sighing, Frank continued, "Given that you confessed to murder, you'll probably get one of the first hearings of the day, so maybe nine o'clock. Who's your lawyer, by the way? I'll call him for you." Hardcastle tapped himself on the chest. Frank rolled his eyes at that. "You know the old saying, Milt, the man who represents himself has a fool for a client." At that, Hardcastle finally smiled, "True, but he also gets what he wants in court with no interference. I know you, Frank, you'd try to talk the lawyer into pleading not guilty." Frank had the decency to look embarrassed at that; he'd been planning exactly that. Hardcastle spoke again, gently determined. "I know what I want, Frank, and you'll just have to accept that."

00000

Mark was angry. And worried. And, under it all, just a little scared. He didn't like the thought that he was being kept alive and healthy only to die in a few days' time. Without being told why. He'd also come to the conclusion that he and Steven were the only two people in the house. There was no sign of the judge and that had him worried. Hardcastle was often loud and pushy and any number of other irritating possibilities, but under it all, he was a good guy. An honourable man, with dignity and courage, and a really wide streak of compassion. Mark was grateful, every single day, that he'd had the good luck to end up in Hardcastle's custody. Things had started to improve for him in the last year, and now he found himself filled with an unusual concern for the judge. Concern strong enough to make him risk whatever this Steven person had planned for him, and probably by extension the judge as well. He'd never heard the name Steven Whitlow before, but the man had obviously put a lot of thought into what he was doing. That meant that some part of this sick plan had to be aimed at the judge, and Mark had decided to make it his personal mission to disrupt those plans as much as possible. No matter what it might cost him personally.

There'd been no mention of food at dinner time, although he'd been let out of the room for another trip to the bathroom. Despite all his questions, Steven had told him nothing more than he'd said before. He'd noted, however, that Steven's attention regularly strayed to the heavy old desk across the room. And that it had new locks on two of the desk drawers. Now, he found himself back in the bedroom, with the door securely locked, holding the bottle of water that had been thrust into his hands as the door closed on his questions. Mark paused in his work of shaping a number of paper clips into a passable lock pick and smiled coldly at the locked door. Steven Whitlow might hold all the keys, but Mark McCormick was nothing if not resourceful. One paperclip wasn't strong enough to pick a lock, but twisting a few of them together might be able to get him out of the room. He could hear the quiet noise of the television suddenly shut off in the outer room, and tucked his makeshift tools under the pillow and lay down, closing his eyes and pretending to be asleep. Seconds later, he heard the door open, and he could feel Steven's gaze rest on him. It was a struggle to maintain the pretence of sleep. The door closed and locked again. Mark's eyes popped open immediately and he waited a good fifteen minutes until his eyes could see the room dimly in the moonlight seeping in the window.

Moving slowly, he made his way to the door and dropped to one knee. Listening intently, he heard nothing but silence. Slowly and carefully, he picked the lock and eased the door open. The room outside was quiet and dim. Quiet breathing echoed from the door across the room and Mark pegged this as Steven's room. Keeping to the sides of the room, Mark headed for the desk he'd seen Steven glance at earlier. The desk had numerous unlocked drawers and Mark gently slid them all open and checked the contents. There was nothing of interest in any of them.

The biggest drawer was one of the two with locks, and Mark quietly set about picking this lock as well. What he found was a collection of files, dog-eared from frequent reading. Gently picking them up, he slipped back to his room, leaving the door slightly ajar. He laid the files on the desk and opened the first one. The information and newspaper clippings all dealt with Hardcastle and himself. Closing that file, he moved on to the second one. This one dealt with the drug-related death of Jason Copeland, aged seventeen. Mark made the assumption that this was the younger man in the photographs on the wall. The drug dealer had been arrested, but had never been convicted. He'd been released and all charges dropped due to a technical hitch with the search warrant for his car. Mark suddenly understood Hardcastle's crusade much better than he had before: the dealer was obviously guilty, but he was still walking around a free man.

Closing that file, Mark moved on to the final folder. This one dealt with the shooting of the drug dealer who had caused Jason's death. Mark felt a rush of satisfaction on realising that the dealer was dead. The man convicted of the murder was Malcolm Copeland, Jason's father. Right at the back of the folder, Mark found a press clipping, starting to fray around the edges, containing a grainy photograph. Two smiling faces looked at the camera: one was Hardcastle and the other Judge Timothy Blackstock. For two people who weren't related to each other, the resemblance was striking. Both men were tall with a similar build and sparse grey hair. But the difference was clear for Mark to see: Hardcastle's eyes were warm and open, while Blackstock's were cold and calculating. Mark had met the other man about nine months previously, just weeks before Judge Blackstock had died from a massive and unexpected heart attack. Mark had to admit that he hadn't liked the man, or his insinuations that Mark would cause trouble for Hardcastle. Reading over the clipping, Mark realised that the names under the photograph had been reversed. Anyone looking at the photograph would think that the man with cold, unfeeling eyes was Hardcastle.

Mark gathered up the folders again and slipped back out into the main room to replace them and lock the desk drawer again. As he was closing his door behind himself again, he heard footsteps from the room where Steven slept. Easing the door open an inch, Mark sighed in relief as he realised he'd just got the files back in time. Steven settled at the desk and pulled the files out, paging through them with an air of distraction that indicated a much-repeated process. Stopping finally at the news clipping Mark had noticed, Steven murmured quietly. "Hardcastle will pay, Dad. He'll know what it's like to lose someone he cares for, and his own precious justice system will punish him for it."

From the other locked drawer that Mark hadn't taken the time to investigate, Steven pulled two small identical bags. Opening one, he checked the contents and closed it up again, placing it back in the drawer, leaving the other one on the desk. Dragging himself to his feet, Steven walked towards the mantelpiece and stared at the portrait of the family. Laying his fingers gently on the glass, he whispered to himself, "He'll pay, Dad. No matter what it takes, he'll pay. I wasn't here for all the years that mattered, but I'm here now, and I'll make sure he pays."

Waiting until Steven had gone back to his room and deep, even breathing echoed out the door again, Mark made his way back to the desk. His mind was spinning as he tried to absorb the full meaning of Steven's words. If Malcolm Copeland was Steven's father, then Jason had been Steven's brother. There was no explanation he could think of at the moment for the different surnames, but what had happened to Jason and Malcolm was obviously the reason behind Steven's actions.

Opening the small bag, he realised he was holding enough heroin to overdose someone. The fact that there was only one syringe made it clear that this was to be the manner of his death. A chill crept down Mark's back and settled between his shoulder blades. He should leave now, while he had the chance. But if he did, he'd never know what the other man had planned for the judge. Mark had the feeling that the plan was already underway, and learning more about it would help him to keep the judge safe. Steven had said he wanted Mark to die in a few days, so he was probably safe for at least one more day. Mark wasn't eager to die, but if taking that risk was what it took to keep Hardcastle safe, then that's what he'd do. Leaving everything exactly as he'd found it, Mark went back to his room and locked the door behind him.

Morning came early and found him still awake, trying to figure out what Steven might have planned. Obviously, Mark was going to die of a drug overdose. He wasn't sure how that was supposed to make Hardcastle pay for something Mark wasn't even sure the judge had done. He had the feeling that Judge Blackstock was probably the one that Steven was targeting, but he couldn't try to explain that to his kidnapper without making him aware of the fact that locked doors were no impediment to Mark. Being tied up again wasn't something Mark wanted to experience, and the freedom to come and go without Steven's knowledge was the only advantage he had at the moment.

Besides which, killing Mark wasn't going to affect Hardcastle all that much. Sure, they were getting along better, and they enjoyed playing basketball and watching television together, but that didn't mean that the older man would really miss him all that much. Steven's information, wherever he'd obtained it from, was obviously not as reliable as the kidnapper thought it was. Mark realised that he'd be sorry to die. He'd not had the best life, after his mother had died, but the last year had shown him that there were still things to look forward to; opportunities to take and experiences to savour. Spending time with the judge was one of those experiences. Hardcase was full of bluster and strange idioms and ideas, but he was interesting and he cared enough about Mark to drag him on to the straight and narrow. And Mark found that he appreciated it. He appreciated the judge; actually, given that he'd most likely be dead soon, it was time to be honest with himself at least: he cared deeply about the older man, and even sometimes saw him as the father he'd never had.

Resolving to do as much as he could to work out whatever Steven was planning, and then to stick a spoke in his wheel, Mark readied himself for the day ahead, carefully hiding his improvised lock picks under the bed.

00000

Milton Hardcastle rubbed his burning eyes and scrubbed his hands over his head, rumpling his hair into untidy spikes. He'd spent most of the night sitting in one spot on the narrow bunk. Going over the last year of his life. The last year of Mark's life. With car races, murder plots, trips to Washington and Clarence, and any number of criminals caught and punished. But most of all, he remembered the quiet times, sitting by the pool and watching the ocean; eating popcorn and echoing the Duke on television; having someone to share a joke with. And after all of that time, thinking and considering, he still wasn't sure if he'd made the best decision a year ago. After all, if he'd just sent Mark back to prison for car theft, the younger man would still be alive. But if Mark had gone back to prison, he wouldn't have become the person Hardcastle had become so proud to know. Everything that had happened was his fault, for starting his 'retirement project' and refusing to see that not everything was always going to work out the way he wanted it to.

Looking around the small cell, he deliberately put his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Milt felt like the walls were closing in on him, and there was no way out. How had Mark survived two years in a room like this, and managed to stay sane? Federal prison was even worse than a local holding cell, and yet Mark still had a sense of humour and the ability to look beyond his own concerns to help others. Why had Milt never thought to ask Mark how he'd managed that? And now that it was too late, Hardcastle realised that he would really have liked an answer to that question. Other questions came to mind as well, about Mark and his life before he'd met Hardcastle, but the judge had never had the courage to broach these topics, and now he'd never have the chance. He could feel tears threatening and he took a deep breath and bit the emotion back savagely.

It was quiet in the cell; possibly too quiet. Hardcastle had always enjoyed his own company, but somewhere during the last year, he'd lost the ability to shut himself away from the world and live a completely solitary life. Mark had broken down his defences, worn them to down to levels that couldn't be rebuilt, and until this moment, he'd never even realised that the younger man had become such an integral part of his life.

Looking down at his hands, Milt rubbed his fingertips together slowly. He could still see and feel the ink used to fingerprint him the afternoon before. He could remember the feel of the lab technician's hands on his as they'd tested for gunpowder residue, and the pitying looks they'd tried to hide as the tests had proved positive. Dropping his hands to his knees, Milt composed his face to an impassive mask as he heard a key turning in the lock of the cell door. It had to be Frank again; the only other person this persistent would never irritate him again.

"Hi, Milt. How're you doing today?" Frank's question was met with silence and one raised eyebrow, as if to say that the question was pointless. Hooking the bag he carried to the side of the bed frame, Frank stated, "That's the clothes you asked me to collect for you." Milt glanced up quickly, then dropped his gaze again. "Thanks, Frank." Frank nodded and sat down next to Milt on the bed. "So, have you remembered anything else since yesterday, Milt? I know it's a lot to ask, for you to keep going through this, but it's important."

Milt shook his head, and fixed his gaze on the opposite wall. "There's nothing more to say, Frank. You know what happened, and everything I can remember simply proves it." Hardcastle's fingers unconsciously rubbed together again, drawing Frank's eyes to the traces of ink. "I've given this a lot of thought, Frank, and I don't want to see you again until after the arraignment." Frank's head shot up at that, and he opened his mouth to argue the point. "No, Frank, don't fight me on this. There's nothing you can do to help, and sticking with me might make people doubt your objectivity."

Frank was furious. "Objectivity be damned, Milt! You're my friend and I won't let you go through something like this alone. How could you even ask me to do that!" Frank pulled Hardcastle around to face him, trying to get his point across as strongly as possible, but words failed him at the open pain in the older man's eyes. Hardcastle's voice was quiet and determined, "I know you're my friend, Frank, but I won't let you damage your reputation by trying to protect me. Please, just stay away until after the arraignment." Against his will, Frank found himself agreeing to Hardcastle's request.

Walking to his desk ten minutes later, Frank gave himself a stern talking to. Hardcastle's intentions were good, as always, but he really should have known better than to expect a good policeman to stand aside and watch a miscarriage of justice take place. What Hardcastle didn't know about couldn't bother him, after all. Turning sharply on his heel, Frank headed for the forensics department. Maybe the evidence could tell him something that Milt either couldn't or wouldn't tell him.

The forensics labs were quiet, as was to be expected on a Sunday morning. Over in the far corner, though, Frank could see the new lab technician who'd transferred in from New Jersey almost a year ago. Frank liked to be on good terms with all the lab guys, as it certainly made working together easier, but Steve had been hard to get to know. Over the months, Frank had managed to figure out that Steve had been just old enough to remember his parents' acrimonious divorce when it had taken place, and that his mother had taken him to New Jersey and left his younger brother with his father in Los Angeles. Frank had never been able to figure out why Steve had come back to Los Angeles, as apparently his father and brother no longer lived in the city. But the lack of family was a good thing for once, as it meant that Steve was always willing to work overtime for urgent cases.

Going over to the younger man, Frank smiled at seeing that Steve had his access pass clipped to his jacket. The smiling face of Steven Whitlow smiled out from the plastic square, completely at odds with the serious expression currently on Steve's face. "Lieutenant, good morning. Is there something I can do for you?"

Steven was proud of the fact that his voice never wavered. He was filled with elation at the thought that his plans were coming together so well, and yet no-one at the police station saw him as anything other than an anonymous lab technician. He wondered what Frank would have thought about him, if he'd known that just before leaving for work this morning, Steven had sedated Mark McCormick again and left him lying unconscious on the bed in Jason's old room, locked away from the world and waiting to die.

Frank smiled a greeting in return. "Steve. I was wondering if you'd had a chance to go through any of the evidence from the Hardcastle case yet? I just want to have all the facts ready before the arraignment tomorrow." Shoving a hand in his pocket, Frank pulled out his notebook and flipped to a clean page. Turning to look at the evidence arrayed on the counter in front of them, Steve pointed towards the blood samples first.

"Well, I'm waiting on the more detailed tests, obviously, but I can tell you that the blood is definitely the right type for Mark McCormick. There was a small amount of white powder on the sofa, near the blood, and that's tested back as heroin, if I recall right." Steve reached past Frank for a clipboard and flipped through the pages to find the one he wanted. "Yup, definitely heroin." Frank added that fact to his list of inconsistencies; there was just no way you'd find drugs anywhere near Mark.

Flipping the pages back the top of the chart, Steve went through all the evidence for Frank. "There's no sign of forced entry, which makes sense, I suppose. Considering that the Judge Hardcastle would have keys to any building on his property. The blood is the victim's, as I said already. The only blood trail leads to the main house, and the shoe patterns are consistent with the slippers we collected from the suspect. The blood type on those and the robe match the blood at the murder scene. The shotgun found on the stairs in the house was definitely fired recently, and the suspect has gunpowder residue on his hands. The damage to the sofa was consistent with the firing pattern of the shotgun we recovered in the house." Pausing in his recitation, Steve flipped back to the first sheet on the clipboard. "To be honest, this case should be a slam-dunk, Lieutenant. All the evidence is consistent with the suspect shooting the victim and then calling it in himself the next morning. He probably found out the victim was on drugs and snapped." Steve felt smug at how well he'd manipulated the evidence to prove the sequence of events, and he only hoped that none of his personal satisfaction had seeped through to Lieutenant Harper. Others had warned him that Frank was very astute and not someone to mess with unnecessarily.

Frank felt his hackles rise at the casual way that Steve condemned Hardcastle with the evidence. He'd had to contain his urge to slam the younger man into the lab counter and tell him, in no uncertain terms, that his suppositions were totally off-base. Frank knew Hardcastle better than to believe that the evidence could be taken at face value. Looking around at the evidence, Frank realised that there were no reports on any of the inconsistencies he'd noticed at the estate. And there was still the question of a body. "Was there any indication of what might have happened to the body, Steve? You know the DA's office is going to make us look for it; any ideas on where to start?"

Steve shook his head, and sighed slightly. "There's no direct evidence, Lieutenant, but my personal opinion is that Hardcastle probably dumped it in the sea. There'd be almost no chance of recovery that way, and less evidence to tie him to the crime."

Frank pursed his lips in a silent whistle. "You've given this a lot of thought. I suppose that makes sense, after all."

Steve smiled slightly at that. Just as he'd hoped, things seemed to be falling in place at every turn. "I have a lot of time to think while the tests run, Lieutenant, and sometimes the answers are so obvious they don't really need a lot of thought. If only every case was this simple."

Frank smiled tightly at that sentiment, then nodded a farewell as he left the room. Without a reason to stay at the station, he decided to head home, and make a detour past Gulls' Way first.

00000

Mark dragged himself towards awareness slowly. His head felt foggy again, tethered to reality by a swirl of confused and jumbled images. As full wakefulness returned, he groaned as he remembered that the images were memories; he'd been kidnapped by someone who planned to kill him. And Heaven only knew where Hardcastle was. His hand touched the half-bottle of water on the bed, and hunger and thirst rose to demand that he drink the water. The sunlight through the window made it clear that it was mid-afternoon. The last thing he remembered from that morning was his captor looking around the door and throwing him another bottle of water, and then somehow, things had slowly faded away and now he sat on the bed, wondering where the day had gone. As he was about to drink some of the water, Mark suddenly realised that this bottle was a different brand to the bottle he'd been given the night before. Comprehension dawned; the water had to be drugged. Because he hadn't drunk it all that morning, he was obviously awake before his kidnapper had returned.

Deciding to make the most of the unexpected opportunity, Mark snatched his lock picks from under the bed, and made short work of the lock on the door. He'd almost made it across the small living room when he heard a car pull up in the drive. Making a beeline for the bedroom door, Mark managed to pull it shut and finish locking it just as he heard the front door open. Slipping back to the bed, he threw himself down and pounded the pillow in frustration; so close! If he'd only had five more minutes. Lying still, he heard the door unlock and quiet footsteps entered the room. He could feel that cold, green gaze settle on his back, and it took all Mark's self-control not to move. A quiet murmur carried to his straining ears. "I thought I was right; that dose should keep him out another two hours at least." Then the door locked again, and Mark sighed as he let his body relax.

Mark spent the next hour lying quietly on the bed, making and discarding one plan after another. He could hear Steven on the telephone, but most of the conversation was too faint to make out any words. The only words he could hear clearly were shouted in anger, "I'm telling you the truth. Go check at the courthouse yourself if you don't believe me!" The telephone was slammed down hard.

Finally, Mark decided just to play things as they came. The only definite point in all his plans was that he was leaving tonight. And he was taking as much evidence with him as he could. Obviously, Steven wasn't planning to tell him what was going to happen to Hardcastle. Keeping Mark drugged all the time was a pretty good indicator that there weren't going to be any little heart-to-heart chats between the condemned man and his executioner.

Keeping silent while he searched the room wasn't easy, but the stakes this time were higher than they'd ever been before, and Mark found that a suitable incentive. He'd unearthed an old canvas knapsack in the cupboard, and he'd dropped the half empty bottle of drugged water into it. He'd also taken the one photograph from the wall, the only one with his kidnapper in it. Somehow, Mark knew that the picture was the key to everything. He trusted the police to get things right, sometimes, but even Frank would want proof of the wild-sounding theory Mark was slowly building up in his head. Mark was also planning to take the files in the desk along with him, as well as the two pouches in the desk drawer.

Settling back on the bed, with the knapsack hidden under the bed with the lock picks, Mark watched the sun set through the small window. His stomach reminded him forcefully that it had been too long since he'd had any food, but he did his best to ignore it. There were more important things to worry about at the moment. Hearing the key in the lock, Mark managed to paste a suitably sleepy and confused look on his face when Steven came into the room. The previous evening's dance of a trip to the bathroom at gunpoint played out in exactly the same way, but this time Mark downed a good amount of water from the bathroom sink faucet. Doubtless tonight's water would be drugged too, and sleeping wasn't on his agenda for the evening.

Mark's attention was caught by the television news as he headed back to Jason's room. A perky little reporter, all perfect makeup and blonde hair, was standing on the steps of the Criminal Court building in central Los Angeles, and excitedly reporting on the latest breaking news.

"This is Cindy Henderson, coming to you live from the Criminal Court building here in Los Angeles. This reporter has it on good authority that one of Los Angeles' own retired judges, Milton C. Hardcastle, will be spending his second night in jail tonight. Tomorrow morning will see him in court right here, where he was a judge for so many years, facing a charge of murder in the first degree." A picture of Hardcastle's face filled the screen, and Mark stood transfixed as the perky little voice continued. "Judge Hardcastle apparently shot and killed someone in his house on Friday night, and although details remain sketchy, it seems the evidence is beyond doubt." Hardcastle's picture was replaced by Cindy's face and this time her glee at having such a news scoop was barely concealed behind her on-air smile. The saccharine voice finished up with fake sadness, "It seems that even the most law-abiding amongst us can fall from grace. Be sure to tune in tomorrow for live coverage on the court proceedings."

Mark felt stunned as he was herded back into Jason's room, and the only thing he could get out was a single question, "Why? He's a good man; why?" Steven considered him for a long moment, and then decided an answer wouldn't hurt anything. "Because he deserves it. He should know what it's like to lose everything that matters. And to have the system he supported all his life condemn him for it." With that startling statement, Steven shoved Mark into the room and slammed the door shut. As the lock clicked into place, Mark stumbled to a horrified stop next to the bed.

Half an hour later, another bottle of water was tossed into the room. Pretending to be desperate for the water, Mark grabbed the bottle as it landed and twisted the top off. As the door closed, he lowered the bottle and slipped off the bed. Opening the closet door, he spotted the upturned football helmet and carefully poured two thirds of the bottle of water into the helmet. Replacing the lid on the bottle, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. Sure enough, within an hour, he heard the door open slightly as his captor checked to make sure the drug had taken effect.

00000

Frank had finally made it home after dark. He'd spent two fruitless hours at the estate, looking for anything to prove that Milt hadn't committed murder. The only thing he'd managed to unearth had been an odd statement by one of Milt's neighbours.

Frank had made his way down to the beach, taking another look at the blood on the path along the way. On the beach, he'd seen scrape marks in the packed sand, but there was no way to say what had caused the marks. Walking along the beach, with Malibu Beach in the distance, Frank wondered why Mark and Milt came to the beach when they needed space. All it did was bring home to him how senseless it was to fight the overwhelming evidence against Milt. The evidence just kept building like a wave heading to shore, washing any obstacles in its path out to sea, never to be seen again.

Frank had considered going home to Claudia, but found that he just couldn't face her. For the first time in his life, he didn't know what to say to her. She was adamant that Milt hadn't killed anyone, much less Mark, and Frank was in complete agreement with her. But he hadn't been able to find any evidence to back up his feelings, and telling Claudia that there was nothing he could do to help his friends wasn't something he was looking forward to. Her temper was legendary, and while he knew it wouldn't really be aimed at him, living through a tirade wasn't ever a happy experience.

Friends. He'd always considered Milt to be a friend, due to shared experiences and similar outlooks on life. Not to mention countless hours spent together in the court house, at the police station, and at Gulls' Way. But somehow, he realised, he'd come to see Mark as a friend as well. They had almost nothing in common and shared nothing except a love of cars and friendship with Milton Hardcastle. Anyone who would do whatever it took to keep Milt safe, and even protect him from himself, was a true friend in Frank's eyes. And Mark fit the bill completely. Frank acknowledged that he wasn't just worried about Milt; he was worried about Mark as well. In some ways, maybe even more worried about Mark, because at least Frank knew where Hardcastle was, and that he was safe. Letting his gaze rest on the shifting water, Frank let his mind wander, hoping it would piece together a plan of action.

So engrossed in his thoughts that he didn't even register movement behind him, Frank almost missed the voice. "Can I help you, young man? I've not seen you here before, are you lost?" Smiling at being called a young man, Frank turned to find himself facing a sprightly little woman, who had to have been at least eighty years old. The sharp brown eyes took in his clothes and the badge on his jacket pocket in one fell swoop, and a pleased smile grew on the charming face. "Well, it's nice to know the police still take you seriously at my age." Frank's confusion must have been clear, and the disappointment in the brown eyes was painful to see. "Never mind. What can I do for you, Officer?"

Frank was about to make his excuses and leave, but inspiration struck suddenly. "I'm Frank Harper, ma'am. And you would be?" A pleased smile filled the old face at this courtesy, "I'm Laurelle. Miss Laurelle Duncan." A flutter of eyelashes almost made Frank laugh. Claudia was going to get a kick out of hearing that someone older than Hardcastle had tried to flirt with Frank. "Tell me, Miss Duncan, why did you call the police?" Frank made a show of getting his notebook out to write down the important facts. Ten minutes later, all humour was gone as he made his way back to his car.

Laurelle Duncan had called the police on Friday night to complain about a speedboat travelling along the coast during the early hours of the morning. Maritime regulations dictated that trips close to the shoreline were only allowed during daylight hours, as the coastline could be treacherous for those not familiar with it. She'd only seen one person in the boat, but it had gone towards Gulls' Way, and then back along the coast a couple of hours later. A lifetime of insomnia meant that Laurelle was often awake at odd hours, and Frank was immensely grateful for her problem. A sixth sense developed over years of police work told him that this call was more important than it seemed. But after another hour spent checking on all the boats at the nearest recreation areas, he'd drawn a blank on finding the boat in question. Every boat he'd seen was larger than the one Laurelle had described. Planning to come back in the morning and check again, in case the boat was there only before dawn, Frank finally made his way home.

00000

Milton Hardcastle settled back against the cold cell wall and contemplated his second night in prison. The silence of the holding area was like a physical thing, muffling his emotions and hampering his ability to think logically. Then again, he could probably blame that on what he'd done on Friday night. Nothing about that night seemed real, and yet he was absolutely sure that he'd pulled the trigger and killed someone whose only crime in recent months had been to trust Hardcastle. So much for helping to rehabilitate Mark and give him a second chance in life.

The thought of what Mark was never going to have and experience – the future with a wife and children of his own, a life full of happiness and contentment that Hardcastle had hoped to be a part of in some small way – suddenly became too much for the retired jurist to bear. Pulling his knees up and resting his arms across them, Milt Hardcastle lowered his head to his arms and finally let the walls break. An hour later, tear stained and exhausted, he slipped into an uneasy doze.

00000

Mark waited until the house was silent and no light showed under the door. Moving quietly, he retrieved the knapsack and lock picks from under the bed and made short work of unlocking the bedroom door. The main room was still and only faint shadows of moonlight lit the space. Mark moved across the room by memory, avoiding the table and chairs with ease. Opening the desk drawer was the work of only a few moments, and then he had the three files in his hands. Slipping them into the knapsack, he opened the drawer he had seen Steven put the drugs into and retrieved both bags, dropping them quietly into the knapsack as well.

Crossing the room slowly, Mark kept an eye out for the car keys; the last thing he wanted was for Steven to wake up and come after him. By the time he'd made it to the front door, he hadn't managed to find the keys, and he had the feeling that time was turning against him. Picking his fourth lock in one night, Mark opened the door just enough to slip through it, and closed it quietly behind him. Taking just enough time for a quick circuit of the house, he spotted the car parked near the back door. Deciding to make life as difficult as possible for his kidnapper, he headed for the car and tested the door. Locked. Undeterred, Mark headed for the hood, popping it open with the ease of long experience. Reaching into the engine, he removed two spark plugs, and then the rotor, just for good measure. Unless Steven had a fully stocked spares shop in his garage, there was no way he'd be coming after Mark in the car.

Not sure which way to go, Mark cast his mind back to the trip to the house. The last turn, into what must have been the driveway, had been a right, and the turn before that as well. So his best option was to head back down the winding drive, then go left until he came to a junction of some sort and head left again. After that, he'd take his chances. Slinging the knapsack over his shoulder, Mark set off at a quick pace, suddenly desperate to get as far from the house as he could. The first left turn led Mark onto a quiet suburban road, with a gentle slope downhill in the direction Mark was heading. Speeding up to a gentle run, he headed down towards the junction less than a quarter mile away. A quick glance at the street sign, and Mark fixed the name Newell Road in his memory. Turning left at the junction, he realised that this road also had a slight downward gradient. Mark smiled at realising that he'd been right in his assumptions while stuck in the trunk of Steven's car; they had used one of the canyon roads, and all he had to do was keep heading downhill to get to something he recognised.

Less than half a mile into his trip, Mark heard the unmistakable sound of a small engine being gunned down the road behind him. It sounded like a small motorbike, and Mark cursed himself for not checking the garage before making his break for freedom. Steven must have had the motorbike in there. Ducking off into the trees alongside the road, Mark hid behind a tree trunk and tried not to move. The motorbike passed him closely enough that Mark could see the rage on Steven's face. Keeping still behind the tree, Mark could hear the other man circling the neighbourhood, street by street, effectively denying him the use of the streets. Waiting until the sound faded into the distance, Mark glanced up at the moon and prayed for the clouds to break and give him more light. Then turning his back on the road he headed deeper into the brush, looking for a way downhill. Things went well for ten minutes, and then Mark's leading foot met nothing but air, and the young man found himself rolling down a steep slope, landing hard against a large rock at the edge of a tiny stream.

Gasping in shock at the feel of the cold water, Mark jerked upright. Seeing the size of the rock in the now brilliant moonlight, his hand went instinctively to the St Jude medal around his neck, and he offered up a quick word of thanks that he hadn't landed headfirst. Brushing his hands around him on the dirt, he found the knapsack lying near him. Taking stock, he realised he could feel numerous scrapes on his arms and face, not to mention his left ankle was achingly cold. Looking at his foot, Mark managed a shaky laugh, as he noticed that his foot was in the tiny stream. Pulling it out, he shook his foot to get the excess water off his sneaker, and caught his breath at the sudden sharp stab of pain. Okay, so it wasn't just the cold water that had made his ankle ache. Mark shifted slowly and stood up carefully, only to have his ankle threaten to give way under him.

Dropping back to the ground, Mark considered his options. Staying put wasn't really even an option, as no-one knew where he was, and the only person close by would happily leave him there to die. That only left getting up and moving under his own steam, which meant that he'd have to find a way to support the injured joint. Mark's eyes fell on the knapsack and the buckles that attached the strap to the bag. Stripping the strap from the bag, Mark slipped his sneaker off his left foot and used the strap to wrap around the joint and under the sole of his foot. Experience told him that it was just a bad sprain, and desperation told him that it wasn't important in the greater scheme of things, anyway. Putting the shoe back on was difficult with the added thickness, but he managed it eventually and staggered to his feet, clutching the remains of the knapsack to his chest. The ankle ached, but he hoped it would hold long enough to find a telephone booth and call Frank. Taking the first of many limping steps, Mark headed off downhill, keeping a sharp lookout for more sudden drops.

Two hours later, Mark could see the beginning of dawn creeping over the horizon. In the far distance he could see something that looked suspiciously like the ocean, proving that downhill had been the right choice when he'd made his escape the night before. The distant sound of a truck's air brake confirmed that the road he thought he could make out along the shoreline was the Pacific Coast Highway. His ankle ached with every step he took, but he ignored the pain in his desperate rush to get back to the judge. Whatever Steven had done to Hardcastle, Mark was sure that if he could just get to the older man, they could sort everything out together. Hardcastle was the most reliable person he'd ever met, bar his mother, and there was nothing the older man couldn't force to make sense. Getting Frank in to help with that process would be a good idea too. Mark's mind wandered for a minute, considering the fact that his two best friends were a retired judge and a cop: who'd have ever thought that would be possible with an ex-convict?

The growing light showed the shoreline to be another mile away, and Mark tried to pick up the pace, setting his teeth against the increased ache in his complaining ankle. Luckily, the morning light made it easier to see oncoming traffic and Mark risked moving closer to the road. Getting near the last turn on the canyon road, he finally recognised the road as Corral Canyon Road. Frustration nearly made him curse out loud: he'd been less than six miles away from the estate the whole weekend. Making it to the Pacific Coast Highway at last, he turned to the right and headed towards the estate, making sure to keep near the brush at the edge of the road, so that he could drop and hide if he heard anyone coming. Even with his sprained ankle, he could make it home in less than an hour. And then he could call Frank, and they could start sorting this whole mess out. Fifteen minutes later, he quickly threw himself to one side, hoping the brush would hide him, as he heard a car coming down the road behind him. Ten tension-filled minutes later, Mark stepped out onto the road again and resumed his trek.

00000

Six in the morning was not a good time to talk to Frank Harper. He was a man who liked a good night's sleep, and the last two nights had been fraught and restless. And then, sitting at a deserted pier trying to spot a speedboat he probably wouldn't recognise in the hopes of proving Hardcastle hadn't committed a murder the man had already confessed to, just didn't make for a good start to the week. And things weren't likely to get any better in the near future.

An hour later, Frank admitted defeat and decided to head out to Gulls' Way for yet another look around. He kept hoping he'd see something he'd missed before; something so glaringly obvious that he'd want to kick himself for missing it in the first place. Sombre and reflective, he made the short drive to the estate, not noticing the dishevelled figure that ducked off to the side of the road as he drove past.

Another complete circuit of the crime scene and whole estate wasted another twenty minutes, and Frank sighed as he realised that he'd have to face the inevitable soon. Hardcastle would be in court in just over an hour's time, and once the guilty plea was entered into the system, there would be little Frank could do to help the older man. If only he could find something to cast doubt on Hardcastle's word. But that would be practically impossible, as even the criminals Hardcastle had dealt with were clear on the fact that the one thing the jurist wouldn't do was lie.

Heading back to his car, Frank was deep in thought and almost missed the quiet gasp behind him. The frantic voice quickly chased the cobwebs out of his head, "Frank. Are you ever a sight for sore eyes!"

Frank froze, hope warring with reality. The voice was Mark's, but Hardcastle was adamant that he'd killed the younger man. Surely, wishful thinking couldn't provide an illusion this believable? Turning slowly on the spot, Frank reached for his gun, ready to meet whatever situation he might find. But there was nothing there, except one bedraggled ex-con, covered in scratches, holding a satchel of some sort and limping towards him with a hugely relieved smile on his face. Frank could feel himself start to smile in slightly hysterical relief himself.

Taking a step forward, reaching out to brace Mark against the limp, Frank found the words pouring out of him, "Mark. I can't believe it's really you! Where have you been; we thought you were dead. What's wrong with your leg? We've got to get moving, time's running out for Milt!" As the last words slipped out, Frank quickly manoeuvred Mark into the passenger seat of the car, and rushed around to hop into the driver's seat. Firing up the engine, he peeled out of the driveway, making a sharp right and heading for Los Angeles as fast as he could, speed limits a thing of the past.

Mark let himself relax in the seat as Frank got on the road to Los Angeles. Once the car was on the Highway, moving at speed through the early morning traffic, Mark spoke, "Frank, what did you mean when you said that you thought I was dead?"

Working his way through slower moving traffic, Frank never pulled his eyes from the road as he recounted the events of the weekend, starting with Hardcastle's telephone call, and ending with the fact that Milt intended to plead guilty in less than an hour. At that, Mark's face paled beneath the scratches, "Frank, you can't let him do that! He'd never survive in prison; there's too many people in there who'd kill him as soon as look at him. Why haven't you tried to stop him, or talked to his lawyer?"

Frank laughed for the first time in days, his spirits rising at just the sound of Mark's voice. Strange, how it had taken this horrible weekend to make it plain just how much of a friend Mark had become. "Have you tried to stop him doing something once he's made up his mind?" As Mark gave him a very dry look, with one eyebrow raised, Frank grinned. "Thought so. You've had a lot of success, I take it?" Mark actually grinned at that. Frank continued, "And I can't talk to the lawyer, because the …" Words failed him for a second. "Stubborn old donkey?" Mark offered with a tired grin. "Yeah, stubborn old donkey is insisting on representing himself." Frank's voice was taut with restrained anger. Taking a deep breath, he glanced at Mark, noting the exhaustion, the scratches and the knapsack clutched tightly to Mark's chest. "So, let's hear your side of the story."

Mark's story took considerably less time to tell than Frank's had, as Mark had spent at least half of his time either unconscious or drugged. Finally getting the whole story out, Mark let the knapsack fall to his lap. "And I think this whole thing is a mistake, Frank. I don't think this guy actually wants Hardcastle. Everything I could find is in these files." one hand patted the files Frank could see in the knapsack, and Mark's voice turned cold, "And I want to be there when you arrest Steven Whitlow." The sudden silence in the car made Mark turn to look at Frank. The cop seemed shocked by what Mark had said. "What, Frank, you don't think I can be as protective of my friends as you and Hardcastle?" Mark's voice rose as fear, anger and a weekend of uncertainty took their toll.

Frank shook his head, finally getting his voice to work again, "No, Mark. I know you better than that. It's just … we've got a lab technician with the same name in our Forensics department. Something felt off about this whole affair from the beginning, and I kept wondering why all the evidence against Milt was so definite and iron-clad. There's not even a grain of doubt, and every concern I raised was ignored or over-ridden. And now I know why. I'll speak to one of the guards at the court house, when we get there, and have them go and arrest him. I don't dare call it in, he'll probably be listening and make a run for it. I don't want him to get away."

Mark sighed, "I suppose that means I can't be the one to put the handcuffs on. Damn. I was looking forward to that." Mark's eyes fell on a telephone booth on the sidewalk. "Frank, can't we call the holding cells and talk to Hardcastle? Let him know what's going on?"

Frank shook his head sadly. "I'd love to Mark, but Milt won't talk to me. He's asked me to stay away until after the arraignment, so he won't damage my 'reputation'." The vicious undertone in the words left Mark in no doubt that Frank couldn't care less about what people thought of him, but he was doing as Hardcastle had asked out of respect for the older man. "So, the only thing we can do is get to the court before he enters a plea."

Traffic started to build up as they got nearer the city, and Mark started to curse every slow driver and over-cautious businessman clogging the main roads. A minor accident at the Santa Monica pier intersection had Mark twitching in his seat, as the delay stole twenty minutes of precious time. Frank used every short cut he knew and the miles to the Criminal Court building slowly crept by. With only minutes to go before nine 'o clock, Frank managed to pull into a reserved police parking spot at the court building. Dashing around the car to help Mark out, Frank shot an irate look at the camera crew on the main stairs, "Vultures."

Mark's questioning look netted him a terse answer. "Cindy Henderson. She's here to report on the downfall of one of justice's greatest defenders. And to think I thought she was one of our better reporters." Frank snorted in disgust. Shifting to Mark's left, Frank guided them towards the side entrance of the building. Once inside, they moved a little quicker on the smooth tiles of the hallway. "Frank, where are we going?" Mark's question reminded Frank that the younger man didn't know which judge would be hearing the plea this morning. "Judge Smithers' court." Mark groaned in despair, "Hardcastle would get the only guy more punctual than he is."

00000

Judge Alvin Smithers' reputation for being punctual was about to take a severe beating, and he still couldn't make himself enter his own courtroom. No-one else had been willing to take this case, and he'd only agreed because he'd thought that Milton Hardcastle had needed another friend in the courtroom. But now that he was actually faced with hearing his friend pleading on a murder charge, he found himself strangely reluctant to get proceedings underway. He still couldn't believe the charges, and he wasn't looking forward to seeing Milton Hardcastle as a defendant. Finally, gathering his robes and courage around his tall, spare frame, he forced himself to step through the door.

After court had been called to order, Judge Smithers waited for the bailiff to read the charges on the next docket. He lifted his gaze to the defendant's table and sighed quietly to himself on seeing Milton Hardcastle there. He recognised the stubborn set to the other man's mouth: 'Hardcase' Hardcastle was going to do what he thought was right and never mind the consequences. Steeling himself for the unpleasant answer to the standard question, he spoke, "How does the defendant plead?"

A sudden commotion at the back of the courtroom drew Judge Smithers' attention, but as his gaze shifted to the door to try to figure out what was going on in the huddle of people there, he still heard the quiet, definite answer, "Guilty, your Honour."

"Objection!" The sudden yell from the back of the courtroom silenced everyone. A hard shove from behind the door managed to move the guards enough that two people could slip in and move up the aisle towards the judge. The older man Judge Smithers recognised as Lieutenant Harper from the Los Angeles Police Department, but the younger man was unfamiliar. Not to mention dirty and bloodied. Alvin Smithers shuddered at the thought of trying to clean up the courtroom if he allowed all that dirt to settle on any of the chairs or tables.

"And just who might you be, young man?" The tone made it quite clear that this was not a judge who tolerated interruptions, and who didn't take kindly to the disruption of accepted procedures. A glance at his defendant suggested that Judge Smithers take a little time to get the full story about this interruption, though: Milton Hardcastle was standing rigidly at the defence table, the look of shock on his face enough to tell Judge Smithers that something was seriously wrong with this whole situation.

Mark limped past the gallery rail and stopped next to the defence table. Reaching out with an uncertain hand to touch Hardcastle's arm, Mark cleared his throat and addressed himself to the bench. "I'm the victim of the crime, your Honour. Mark McCormick. And don't take this the wrong way, but I think you'd better toss this case out of your court room, your Honour. I don't think I'm dead."

The hesitant touch on his arm had jogged Hardcastle's brain cells back into action. The voice had sounded like Mark's, but he'd spent the last two days so desperate to hear that voice again that he was sure he'd imagined it. But the hand on his arm was warm and solid, and that was too real for Hardcastle not to risk a look. Forcing his head to turn, he let his gaze rest on Mark's face, not even really hearing the younger man telling Judge Smithers to toss the case out of court.

The events of Friday night replayed themselves in his head, overlaid with the image of Mark smiling gently at him. For the first time in many years, Hardcastle was at a complete loss for what to do. A gentle push from Mark dropped him into the chair behind him. Dragging his attention back from legs that suddenly felt too weak to support him, Hardcastle forced himself to listen as Judge Smithers dismissed the case and dropped all the charges against Hardcastle.

Finally managing to see past Mark's smiling face, Hardcastle realised that Frank was standing behind Mark, smiling at least as broadly as the kid. Finding his voice, he directed his first comment to Frank, "What the hell's going on here, Frank?" Then, not even waiting for the answer, he reached out and grabbed Mark's arm, hanging on for all he was worth. "And you, McCormick, don't you ever do anything like this to me again!" Tears were close, and Milt refused to let them fall in open court; in the meantime, bluster would make a good shield. The knowing look on Mark's face assured him that Milt was better understood than he thought. Mark murmured quietly over his shoulder, "Frank, could we maybe move this somewhere a little less public?"

After a quiet word with Judge Smithers, who looked hugely relieved not to have to send Hardcastle to prison, the whole party moved into the Judge's private chambers. Waylaying one of the court guards, Frank asked the man to head over to the police Forensics Lab and arrest Steven Whitlow on charges of kidnapping, with more charges to follow later. Glancing at Judge Smithers, Frank smiled slightly, "Judge Smithers, when you've heard the rest of this story, perhaps you could tell me what the other charges should be; I'm not sure how to describe exactly what Steven did and had planned." The smile turned cold, "I'd like something that carries a particularly long sentence."

Thirty minutes later, Hardcastle had regained some of his equilibrium, although his gaze never strayed far from Mark, settled in a quiet corner in Judge Smithers' chambers. The intensity in the gaze was almost making Mark uneasy, but he supposed seeing the person you believed you'd killed breathing and talking would be difficult to process for most people. Mark had handed the files and drugs to Frank as soon as they'd all moved out of the courtroom, and Frank had immediately sent the drugs for testing. The files were currently spread on Alvin Smithers' desk, the subject of much speculation.

Part of the story was already clearer, thanks to Judge Smithers. After looking at the files, his eyes had taken on a distant look, and then he started to talk, with an air of recalling something he'd read a long while before. "I remember this case. It was one of Tim's last." A glance at Mark and he'd elaborated, "Judge Blackstock. He was always very hard-line, not a guy who liked shades of grey in his court and in his decisions. Malcolm Copeland was accused of murdering the drug dealer who'd sold Jason Copeland the drugs that he'd used to overdose. Jason was Malcolm's son, I believe. Malcolm threatened to kill the dealer, I think his name was David Peyton, when the charges were dropped. I recall that the police found drugs in the Peyton's car, but the warrant had only specified his dwelling for the purposes of the search. You know Tim." Alvin tipped his head towards Milt, who nodded in return.

"He'd have let Peyton go, without a second thought." Hardcastle sighed heavily, and glanced at Mark again. "He was very rigid, kiddo, and he would never have let something like that slide."

Judge Smithers nodded again. "When Peyton was killed, the first thing the police did, was to check on Malcolm Copeland's alibi, and he didn't have one. And then they found the murder weapon in his house. He swore he didn't kill Peyton, but the circumstantial evidence was so strong, that he was convicted and sentenced to twenty years in San Quentin."

Hardcastle shook his head, "You know, I've always envied how you can remember things like that. One day you'll have to tell me how you do it." Judge Smithers grinned like a naughty child caught sneaking cookies from the jar. "I let everyone think that it's something I've learnt over the years in this job, but actually, I've got a photographic memory." The distant look was suddenly made clear. Hardcastle laughed for the first time in too long, and shook his head again. "I guess it'll ruin your reputation for knowing everything if we tell anyone, so I suppose your secret's safe with us."

Rising to his feet, Hardcastle held out a hand to Mark. "Not that I don't like your company, Al, but I think I'd like to go home now. Come on, kiddo." Mark got slowly to his feet, and took a limping step towards Hardcastle. Stepping quickly to Mark's side, Hardcastle eased an arm around the young ex-con's waist. "Mark, what's wrong?"

"It's nothing, Judge, honest. I just took a little spill down the hill last night and sprained my ankle. It's not even serious, really, just a bit stiff." Relief at being able to stop the judge entering a guilty plea was enough to make Mark feel like he was floating a foot off the floor. His sprained ankle barely even registered at the moment, though he imagined it would be a lot more intrusive by the next day. "Now, let's go home, Judge."

This time, it was Frank who barred their way. "Look, guys, we don't know where Steven is yet. I'm not letting you two go off on your own while he's still free. Especially since we don't know what he's planning next." Taking in the twin disgruntled expressions, Frank sighed. "Okay, okay. You can both come to my office and stay there until we arrest Steven. You both spend so much time there, anyway, that you should feel right at home." The little cavalcade set off, sneaking out the side door of the court house again to avoid the reporters settled on the front steps.

Two hours later, both Milt and Mark were driving Frank berserk. They'd both fidgeted and fiddled with everything on Frank's desk. Then they'd both refused to be checked out by the department doctor, insisting they'd see Charlie Friedman later. Mark had slipped away to the washroom long enough to clean off most of the dirt. Then he'd wheedled one of the dispatchers into fetching him a sandwich, which he'd wolfed down in just a few minutes.

Now the two men were both eying Frank's filing cabinet, their twin gazes considering the possibilities of going through Frank's open cases. Locking the cabinets would be no deterrent, either, as Mark had just ably proved that he could pick locks with nothing more than paper clips and letter openers, both of which were in good supply on Frank's desk. The sudden movement outside the door filled Frank with relief: Steven Whitlow was being led into the main room, handcuffed and defiant.

Leaving his office and crossing the room in a few short steps, Frank could feel his temper rise as he shoved a hand across Steven's chest, halting the other man's progress. "I trusted you, and you lied to me. You arranged all the evidence to convict a friend of mine, and I wish I could make you pay for that. But I'll just settle for knowing why. So, tell me. Or I'll let them ask." A jerk of his hand indicated Mark and Hardcastle, both standing silent and forbidding across the room. At the sight of the two men, Steven seemed to deflate slightly, and his resistance faded. Nodding, he let Frank lead him to an interrogation room. A couple of minutes later, Hardcastle and Mark found themselves being shepherded out of the building by a police officer, and on Frank's orders, being driven to see Charlie Friedman before being escorted back to Gulls' Way. A promise to visit Gulls' Way that evening with all the details did very little to mollify either man, but Frank ignored their irate gazes with an ease born of long practice.

00000

Twilight had fallen and the estate was serene in the dim light. Two figures stood together at the edge of the cliff wall, watching the sun set over the rising tide. The afternoon had been long and tiring. Charlie had scolded them both for the state they were in, and after cleaning up Mark's scratches and taping his ankle, the two men had been sent home with strict orders to rest. But rest had been hard to come by.

Mark felt chilled every time he heard Hardcastle's guilty plea repeat itself in his head. The thought of Hardcastle in prison, most likely dying there, either from age or revenge, scared him rigid. He knew others would think he was only concerned because he knew the jurist personally, but he'd realised that he would have cared whether he knew the judge or not. It was a revelation of how far he'd come in the last year, that he found he couldn't abide that sort of miscarriage of justice for anyone. Before he'd met Hardcastle, he'd have felt a fleeting moment of sympathy for someone who'd come out on the wrong side of the law. Now, he realised that he'd feel obliged to do something about a situation like that if he came across it.

Sometimes the biggest changes simply arrived without fanfare, made themselves at home, and jumped up and bit you when you were least expecting them. Kind of similar to how he felt about Hardcastle; he'd never even considered how he felt about the older man until things had all gone wrong in Clarence, when the judge's old friends had tried to kill him. Mark had known then that he cared about the judge, but this last weekend had shown him that perhaps the word love was more appropriate. And that sentiment had somehow just managed to settle in without Mark being any the wiser. Looking over at the older man, Mark smiled to himself; he had no plans to tell the judge that he was so important to Mark. For now, Mark could reflect that, for the first time since his mother had died, there was someone in the world that he cared enough about to sacrifice everything to keep them safe. A love to make life worth living.

Hardcastle spotted the smile, and tilted his head, "Care to share, kiddo?" At Mark's head shake, the judge simply smiled and went back to considering the ocean below. Always moving, and yet still the same. Exactly like Mark; always talking and giving odds, but under it all, a core of reliable integrity. Once Hardcastle had realised that Mark was actually alive, and heard the whole story, he'd fixated on one fact: Mark had stayed in Steven's house for as long as he dared, just to find out how to keep Hardcastle safe. How did you reward loyalty like that? And how could you tell someone like Mark, afraid to get too close to anyone, that you cared as much about him as you did about your own son? For Hardcastle had experienced an epiphany of sorts this weekend: the thought that he'd killed Mark had been enough to make him give up and not want to fight the case against him. Only love was the right word for that sort of emotion, but there was no way to tell Mark that. So that left simply going on as they had before, and keeping an even better eye on the younger man to keep him safe. Hardcastle smiled, his expression an unconscious echo of the look on Mark's face.

Both men turned at the sound of a car in the driveway. Heading back to the house, they met Frank just outside the front door, carrying what smelled like Mark's favourite type of pizza. All three headed for the den, with Mark making a detour to the kitchen for plates and something to drink. Putting everything on the table in the den, Mark flopped into his usual chair and hooked his foot up on the edge of the table. Hardcastle glared at the offending limb, and Mark grinned, "You heard Charlie. He said to keep it elevated." The grin disarmed Hardcastle and he glanced over to see Frank hiding a smile. Frank caught Milt's gaze and settled back himself. As soon as everyone was supplied with pizza, Frank took the floor.

"So, Steven has been singing like a canary all afternoon. We got most of the story right in Judge Smithers' chambers this morning, you know. But there was one very important thing we didn't know. Malcolm Copeland really didn't kill David Peyton; Steven did. He'd flown in from New Jersey for Jason's funeral, and was still here when Peyton was released. He used his father's gun to shoot Peyton and then put it back in his father's house. Steven didn't know Malcolm had threatened Peyton when the charges against Peyton were dismissed, and when the police found the gun, all the evidence pointed to Malcolm. The only way to save his father would have been to confess, and he had no intention of doing that. And then, eighteen months after being sentenced, Malcolm got on the wrong side of some sort of prison gang and ended up dead. Instead of seeing that he'd caused the whole situation, Steven seems to have spent the last year or so convincing himself that he wasn't to blame; the judge who sentenced his father was to blame. And seeing as how he wasn't in court when his father was sentenced, he only knew the judge's name. And the only picture he had of Judge Blackstock was that one in his file, with the names in the wrong order. Apparently, someone at the court here sent it to him, but didn't notice the mistake with the names." Frank shook his head at the vagaries of fate.

"So, none of this was actually aimed at Hardcastle?" Mark wanted to be sure that the older man was really safe before he could relax again. A glance at the judge showed he was just as interested in the answer, but he hid his interest better than Mark did. No doubt years of practice on the bench helped with that, keeping thoughts and emotions hidden to aid the cause of objectivity.

Frank smiled in reassurance. "Nope. Milt was just the unfortunate victim of a severe case of mistaken identity. And you," with a nod at Mark, "were just another way to make Milt suffer." Mark's puzzlement was obvious. Hardcastle looked as if he had an idea where the conversation was heading and hoped the train would derail before it reached the station. Frank feigned oblivion and kept going. Sometimes both Milt and Mark were so stubborn about admitting what was obvious to those who knew them well, that it was a pleasure to make them face the facts. And after the weekend he'd just lived through, Frank felt entitled to get some enjoyment out of the situation at last.

"Steven had managed to get his hands on some of the police reports about you two, when he was gathering information on Milt, and he'd formed the impression that you two seemed closer than employer and employee. And he figured if that were true, then he could get at Hardcastle through you." Mark interrupted, unable to keep the confusion from showing, "Leaving aside the fact that he obviously has no idea what he's talking about, why not just kill me, then? Surely that would be enough."

Frank swallowed his last bite of pizza and nodded. "You'd think so. But Steven was determined that you had to die of a drug overdose, like Jason. But if you did, there was no way Milt would be held responsible. So he had to make you disappear and get Milt convicted before the drugs wore off."

This time Hardcastle was the one to cut Frank off, "What do you mean, the drugs were going to wear off? What drugs? I didn't take anything!" The offended tone was enough to make Mark chuckle. Frank's grin was equally amused. "No, Milt. You didn't take anything; at least, not willingly or knowingly. The drug is airborne and Steven apparently made it up himself. Within the first few hours, you're very vulnerable to suggestion, so he managed to convince you that you'd shot Mark." Hardcastle's wince suggested that this was perhaps a topic to avoid for the near future. "The effects usually last about two weeks, and then you'd have realised that everything wasn't real. That's why he hung on to Mark, here." A tip of his head indicated Mark, who was horrified enough that he'd actually stopped eating. "When you realised you hadn't killed Mark, you'd have already been in prison, and then he'd have overdosed Mark and sent you photographs of the corpse." A disgusted noise from Mark's side of the room suggested that perhaps this topic wasn't going to be a popular one for the foreseeable future, either.

"Sorry, Mark." Frank managed to look sheepish and amused at the same time. "That way, Steven felt that the judge who'd sentenced his father would not only lose a son the same way Malcolm did, but also end up in prison, falsely convicted, just as Malcolm did. And he might even have got away with it, too, because I couldn't find enough direct evidence to prove that what seemed the most plausible explanation for everything, wasn't true." Frank shook his head at his own stupidity, feelings of guilt showing clearly. "I had all the pieces I needed, but I just couldn't put them together quickly enough to see the full picture."

Two voices cut him off before he could go any further, "It's not your fault, Frank!" Mark and Milt looked at each other and laughed, realising that perhaps they were closer than they'd admit to being. And the fact that all three of them had been misled by the same person, at the same time, would only bring them closer and make them trust each other all the more. If this was any indication, the future was certainly going to be interesting, especially if they kept attracting other peoples' troubles as well as their own.

Mark's expression suddenly turned thoughtful and Hardcastle noticed the silence. "Now, just what's going on in that head of yours, McCormick?" Gentle affection leached the words of all malice, and Mark smiled. The judge's feelings were so clear, if you only knew what to look for. But sentiment was to be avoided at all costs, so, "So what you're actually saying, Frank, is that me escaping from Steven is what saved the day? I'm responsible for the fact that this old donkey is still walking around a free man." The easy insult made Hardcastle smile. Maybe the kid really did care as much as Steven had thought; he certainly cared about Mark that much.

As Frank nodded, Hardcastle cut in, "Do tell me what you were thinking in that courtroom, though, kiddo; you can't object to a plea!" Mark laughed out loud at that, "That's as may be, Judge, but at least it worked." Hardcastle shook his head, "It doesn't work that way, Mark. You have to do things the right way." Mark's grin turned wicked, "Well, if my courtroom style doesn't appeal to you, Judge, maybe I should go to law school and learn how to do it your way. Maybe I'll turn out just like you!" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Mark realised to his shock that he meant them. Perhaps law school would be an option one day down the road. The stunned look on Hardcastle's face dissolved into laughter, even as he admitted to himself that seeing Mark following his lead would make him very proud. Biting back the sentiment, he focused on the here and now, and the rest of the evening passed in the company of pizza and good friends, with a little John Wayne thrown in for good luck.


End file.
